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A BANJO AT ARMAGEDDON 



A Banjo 

at 

Armageddon 

by 
Berton Braley 

Author of "Things as They Are," 
"Songs of the Workaday World," etc. 



New York 
(reorge il* Doran (company 



o*.* 



xf 3 ^V 



COPYRIGHT, 1917, 
By GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY 



c x < 



DEC 12 1917 



PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA 

IT ©CI.A479497 



*r 



To Helena and Fred I give a greeting 

Warm as their hearts — and that is warm indeed. 
Theirs is a patience kind and never fleeting 

They always listen to me when I read 
My various verses ; further, they appear 

To face the trial with no sign of dread 
And so I spout my rhythms, year on year 

To Helena and Fred. 

To Helena and Fred I turn full often 

When critics say that I'm a piffling bard ; 
The praise of these two loving friends will soften 

The book reviewer's knocks, however hard. 
To Helena and Fred, whose faith is great, 

Whose friendship certain, and whose blood is red, 
I owe a debt I cannot liquidate 

Nor do I hope to, all the years ahead ; 
Therefore this "little book" I dedicate 

To Helena and Fred. 

(Mr. and Mrs. Frederick Erving Dayton) 

New York. 



MY thanks and acknowledgments are 
due to the following publications and 
publishers for permission to reprint the vari- 
ous verses comprising "A Banjo at Arma- 
geddon" in book form: Newspaper Enter- 
prise Association, Popular Magazine, Ains- 
lee's Magazine, Photoplay Magazine, Smart 
Set, Puck, Saturday Evening Post, Chicago 
Tribune, Life, Green Book, New York 
Times, Farm and Fireside, Collier's, Motor 
Life, Illustrated Sunday Magazine, The Na* 
tion's Business, New York American, New 
Story Magazine, Country Gentleman. 



CONTENTS 



IN THE "BIG SHOW" 

Page 

Up With the Flag 15 

The Ancient Thrill 16 

The War Lord's Rest . . . . .18 

"We Serve" 19 

America Speaks 21 

The Bos'n's Mate 22 

The Fireman 24 

The Leather Necks 26 

Your Land 28 

Verdun 30 

OPEN AIR BALLADS 

The Safety Valve 33 

The Old Love 34 

Who Laughs Last 35 

Love's Feet Linger 37 

The Impulse 39 

The High Trail 41 

The Sea Wind 42 

Gypsy Song 43 

The Call 44 

Around the Fire 45 

Sailing 46 

Tennis 48 

Only a Dog 50 

CITY BALLADS 

Prisoner 55 

Modern 56 

[ix] 



CONTENTS 



Page 

The Mouth- Watering Place 57 

The Spell of the Rialto 58 

The Ferry Boat 60 

The Commuter 62 

The Lonesome Cop .64 

On the City Street 66 

The Lonesomest Time 67 

A Pantoum of Rehearsal 68 

An Easy Task . 70 

To Doug 71 

The Difference 72 

FARCE AND FRIVOL 

Ambition 75 

Playing Safe 77 

The Bad Mannered Pirate 79 

Learning to Write . . . . . .82 

Ye Final Teste .84 

B-r-r-r- ......... 87 

The Misanthrope 89 

The Limit 90 

The Cynics' Dialogue 92 

Hot Weather 94 

Frankness Between Friends 95 

BALLADS OF THE WORKADAY 
ADVENTURERS 

Opportunity 99 

The Added Ingredient 100 

Tribute 101 

[x] 



CONTENTS 



Page 

Start Where You Stand 103 

Newark — The Builder 105 

The Endless Battle 107 

Business is Business 108 

The Shops no 

The Price of Fish in 

The Scab 113 

Vale "Buffalo Bill" 114 

The Well Shooter 115 

The Electrician 118 

The Heart of the Mine 119 

The Reporter 121 

Nomad " . . . . 122 

The Farmer 123 

The Joy of Life 124 



[xi] 



IN THE "BIG SHOW" 



A BANJO AT ARMAGEDDON 



UP WITH THE FLAG! 

UP with the flag! Up with the flag! 
Up with the flag we love ! 
Till its colors flutter from every roof 

And merge with the skies above. 
And our eyes shall fill and our hearts shall thrill 

With the joy that is always new, 
At the grand old sight of the red and white, 
And the stars in a field of blue. 



Let our flag unfurled to a watching world 

Be proof that we keep our trust, 
That we take our part with a valiant heart 

In a cause that we know is just! 
Let it float on high, and if men must die 

To keep it from blot or stain, 
They shall meet their fate with souls elate — 

And they shall not die in vain. 



For the flag still holds in its ample folds 

The spell of its olden fame, 
And our pulses leap, and we burn down deep 

With a wonderful, quenchless flame ; 
As the flag flings free for all to see 

In the sweep of the winds above, 
Up with the flag ! Up with the flag ! 

Up with the flag we love ! 

[15] 



A BANJO AT ARMAGEDDON 



THE ANCIENT THRILL 

CREAKING belts and gleaming steel, 
Drums that roll and fifes that squeal, 
Swinging limbs and rhythmic feet — 
Soldiers, marching down the street ! 
When the wars are past and the world at last has won 

to a perfect peace, 
When the blind red rage of a berserk age shall dwindle 

and pale and cease, 
When the guns are dumb and the droning hum of the 

flying steel is stilled, 
And the soil no more is drenched with gore, and the 

fields that were fought are tilled, 
We shall rest, in faith, from the fearful scathe and our 

thanks shall rise on high, 
That at length, in sooth, our strength and youth need 

not go forth to die, 
But peace will cost one glamour lost that may not come 

again, 
The thud and beat of the soldiers' feet and the swing of 

the marching men ! 

What shall we gain for the martial strain of the fife 

and drum we lose, 
For the tune that skirls and the dust that swirls from 

the tread of the soldiers' shoes? 
Though peace be fair we shall miss the flare of the sun 

on steel and brass, 

[16] 



A BANJO AT ARMAGEDDON 

THE ANCIENT THRILL (continued) 

And the rhythm fine of each rippling line as the serried 

columns pass, 
We shall miss the lift of the motion swift and the lilt 

of the virile tread, 
That old old thrill we cannot kill while human blood 

runs red, 
Though our peace be deep as a dreamless sleep we 

shall murmur now and then, 
For the thud and beat of the soldiers' feet and the 

swing of the marching men ! 

Creaking belts and gleaming steel, 
Drums that roll and fifes that squeal, 
Swinging limbs and rhythmic feet — 
Soldiers, marching down the street ! 



C17] 



A BANJO AT ARMAGEDDON 



THE WAR LORD'S REST 

I WONDER if the kaiser's sleep is sound, 
Or if in dreams that startle him awake 
He hears dead voices issue from the ground 

And sees the ghosts of fallen hosts that shake 
Their grisly fists before his staring eyes ; 

I wonder if about the imperial bed 
He does not feel a force malignant rise 
— The living curses of the murdered dead ! 

I wonder if the kaiser's sleep is sound, 

Or if in eerie stretches of the night, 

He faces God in terrible affright, 
The God he has blasphemed, the God he crowned 

With Prussian bays for Prussian deeds of hate ! 
I wonder if he finds true rest in sleep 
While little children moan and women weep 

Because his lust for empire waxed too great ! 

He drew the sword and drenched the world in blood 
He plunged mankind in agony profound; 

I wonder if, amid this crimson flood, 
The kaiser's sleep is sound ! 



[18] 



A BANJO AT ARMAGEDDON 



"WE SERVE" 

NOT by cheers alone or the flattering vaunt of 
speeches 
Is the strength of a nation shown in the strain of the 
crucial hour 
But by trust in a righteous cause and a glorious love 
that reaches 
Deep down to a people's soul with its searching and 
poignant power, 
So the flags that float on the breeze have a tarnished 
and tawdry splendour 
If they are not raised aloft by hands that are leal 
and true, 
And the test of our loyal might is the faith that we 

gladly render, 
Not the words that our tongues may speak, but the 

tangible deeds we do. 
All that our fathers dreamed of, all that they ever 
sought for 
When they shivered at Valley Forge and battled at 
Bunker Hill, 
Is again at stake in the world — a guerdon that must be 
fought for; 
It is ours to hold and defend with all of our strength 
and will ; 
And if we would keep our banners proudly and freely 
flying 
We must gird ourselves as others have girded them- 
selves of old 

[19] 



A BANJO AT ARMAGEDDON 

"WE SERVE" (continued) 

And prove by the fact of service, living or bravely dy- 
ing, 
That the torch our fathers carried has never grown 
dim or cold. 

Not by cheers alone, or waving of flags and singing 
Is a nation's spirit shown, but only when brain and 
nerve 
Are trained to the instant need — and the nation's call 
is bringing 
Her bravest children forth— crying, 
"We Serve! We Serve!" 



[20] 



A BANJO AT ARMAGEDDON 



AMERICA SPEAKS 

I KNOW my sons, they seek to hide their spirit, 
Ashamed to show the fire within their breasts, 
And when their country calls they laugh to hear it 
Greeting the summons with cool jibes and jests, 
And so, with mocking tongues and lips that crinkle 

Scoffing they come in answer to the call, 

Take up their duties with their eyes atwinkle, 

Heroes, who will not look the part at all. 

They who would face the nation's foes undaunted 

Pretend to be afraid at thought of strife, 
Yet blithely answer "present !" when they're wanted 

And fight as long as they have breath of life ; 
To patriotic anthems, syncopated 

They dance light footed, but they love the flag 
And die for it with ardor unabated 

And hearts elate — and lips that hum a rag ! 

I know my sons ; the grand old strain is in them, 

And they will never fail me in my need, 
But talk of fame and glory will not win them 

For "no heroics" is their quiet creed; 
They'll jest at service in a cynic manner 

And swear that guns would make them flee pell-mell, 
And yet I know they'd bear my starry banner 

If need be, through the very fires of hell ! 

[21] 



A BANJO AT ARMAGEDDON 



THE BOS'N'S MATE 

YUP all idlers !" says the Bos'n's Mate 
In the voice of a full-grown bull, 
An' he doesn't care if you %as up late 

An' your eyes with sleep is full ; 
For its "'Eave an' lash 'em!" at the double-quick; 

An' you does what you're told to do, 
Though your eyes is heavy an' the dark is thick, 
You jumps when he yells, "Turn to !" 



You may not like it, but you got no choice 

When his whistle's blowin' shrill, 
And his bull-like beller is Your Master's Voice 

When he shouts for the wash-down drill, 
He roars out orders till you're durn near daft 

With a dozen diff 'rent calls, 
From his "Stand by, sweepers !" to his "All hands aft 

And lean on the whaleboat falls !" 



When you're curled up comfy an* you're "calkin* off 

In the shade of the focs'l bitts, 
He comes an' wakes you with a deep bass cough 

An' you hops to your feet an' gits, 
He's the bull-mouthed preacher of a life of stress 

Through the hull of the long, long day, 
An' he's only welcome when he pipes to mess, 

Which he does in a shipshape way. 

[22] 



A BANJO AT ARMAGEDDON 

THE BONN'S MATE (continued) 

Still, my time is comin' if I'll only wait 

Till a few more years goes past, 
An' I gets my ratin' as a bos'n's mate 

— Then I'll sure get square at last, 
For I'll keep them Jackies on the run, you bet, 

They'll jump like I have to do, 
When the Bos'n's Mate makes me toil an' sweat 

With his bellerin' roar, "Turn to!" 

NOTES. — " 'Eave an' lash em" — means heave out and lash 
hammocks. 

"Calkin' off"— sleeping. 

"Whaleboat falls" — ropes for hauling up the whaleboats to 
the davits. 



[23] 



A BANJO AT ARMAGEDDON 



THE FIREMAN 

T STARTED to figurin' yesterday night 
■*- When I was a-smokin' my cob, 
An' if my arithmetic's half-way near right 

I've sure got a bum of a job, 
For 'cordin' to dope that I've ciphered out clear 

An' takin' my work as it runs, 
I've shoveled, to date, in my navy career 

Some fifty odd thousands of tons. 



An* when I looks forward through years that's to come 

An' sees myself, shovelin' coal, 
Just shovelin' coal till my muscles grow numb, 

I kinda gets sick to the soul 
To think of the heat an' the glare of the fire 

An' the scrape of the scoops on the floor. 
It ain't just the work that a guy would desire 

To keep at for thirty years more. 



An' if there's a battle the fellows who gets 

The glory is up on the decks, 
A-fightin' the guns, while we parboils an' sweats, 

Until we are tarry-skinned wrecks. 
An' if we're the winners we drives the ship home 

Which means we must shovel again, 
An' if we should lose, we go under the foam 

In a scaldin' hot, steely-walled pen. 

[24] 



A BANJO AT ARMAGEDDON 

THE FIREMAN (continued) 

Still, thinkin' it over, perhaps I will stick, 

For, spite of the sweat that I spill, 
I'm free to sleep in when I've finished my trick, 

An' I don't have to scrub or to drill. 
An' if I am good maybe some day I'll land 

In an oil-burnin' boat, glory be! 
Where you just turn a cock — say, it otta be grand 

An' I reckon 111 hang round an' see. 



[25] 



A BANJO AT ARMAGEDDON 



THE LEATHER NECKS 

THERE once was a time I said "Damn the Marines ! 
They never do nuthin' toward earnin' their beans 
But standin' around in a nice khaki suit 
An' linin' up straight when we come to salute, 
They're nuthin' but battleship flatties, that crew, 
Just battleship flatties with nuthin' to do, 
But get in the way when we scrubs or we cleans," 
Yes, onct on a time I said, "Damn the Marines." 

But that was in days when I thought I was wise, 

Just one of these cocky an' know-it-all guys, 

Before my experience went very far, 

I couldn't learn nuthin' — I needed a jar. 

I got it. A bunch of us jackies ashore 

Was jumped on by niggers, a thousand or more, 

An' there in the jungle we dropped to our knees 

An' fought for our lives in the brush an' the trees. 



They had us surrounded — a lot of us drops, 
The outlook was bad when them battleship cops 
Comes up on the jump from the jungle somewhere 
An' just takes a hand in our little affair. 
We seen their old khaki and say, in that muss, 
It looks like the garments of angels to us; 
The niggers they left that particular scene 
An' me — I was kissin' a U. S. Marine. 

[26] 



A BANJO AT ARMAGEDDON 

THE LEATHER NECKS (continued) 

An' that's how I learned — as I should have known 

then — 
That U. S. Marines is some Regular Men, 
The first ones ashore, an' the last to come back, 
When trouble is started with white men or black ; 
Yes, call 'em "ship's flatties" an' "leathernecks," too, 
But when things is started they sees 'em clear through, 
They're first class He-fighters who uses their beans, 
An' — only a fool would say "Damn the Marines!" 



[27] 



A BANJO AT ARMAGEDDON 



YOUR LAND! 

WHAT does your country mean to you? 
Merely a place to live and make money in? 
Merely a hive where you gather the honey in, 
Or something that's splendid and true? 
Something that thrills you and holds you and thralls 
you 
Something your pulses can leap and beat high for 
Making you ready to serve when it calls you 

Something to work and to live and to die for? 
What does it mean to you? 

What does your country mean to you? 

Only a land that your profits are swelling in, 

Only a spot that you chance to be dwelling in, 
Or something that thrills you through? 
A warmth in your heart and a fire in the soul of you, 

A glow in your eyes and a light in your brain, 
A faith that is passionate, gripping the whole of you, 

A vision of glory that shall not be vain? 
Or only a place where there's business to do, 
What does it mean to you? 

What does your country mean to you? 

Something to boast and brag for, 

To cheer and to wave the flag for, 
(The red and the white and blue) 

And then to forget? Or is it 

[28] 



A BANJO AT ARMAGEDDON 

YOUR LAND! (continued) 

A land you will give devotion, 

And courage and hope exquisite, 
Till all of the dreams you've sought for 
And all of the goals you've fought for 

In this, our land, come true? 
What does your country mean to you? 



[29] 



A BANJO AT ARMAGEDDON 



VERDUN 

THEY shall not pass!" In dug-out and in trench 
The phrase was muttered as the poilus fought 
The earth and sky were but a shambles, fraught 
With gas and bursting shells and with the drench 
Of shrapnel. Yet, in all the battle-stench, 
'Mid horror heaped on horror past all thought 
The thin line stood. A miracle was wrought; 
They could not break the Will that held the French. 

Each human soul must meet its own Verdun 
That crisis when the armies of despair 
Attack the fortress in a serried mass ; 

Not by brute strength may this great fight be won, 
But only by the Will that can declare 
In face of all Hell's hosts, "They shall not pass!" 



[30] 



OPEN AIR BALLADS 



A BANJO AT ARMAGEDDON 



THE SAFETY VALVE 

THERE'S something in us, every one, 
A queer unrest that gets us all, 
And till the game of life is done 

It irritates and frets us all. 
Some seek to drown it deep in drink 

Despite the carpers' caviling; 
And some in crime and some in — ink; 
Tm travelling, just travelling! 

The gambler's joy is in the game, 

The lover's in his amorous 
And fervid wooing. Some for fame 

And all it means are clamorous. 
I leave the statesman to his state, 

The chairman to his gavelling, 
The while with heart and mind elate 

I'm travelling, just travelling. 

From land to land, from sea to sea 

Where life is brightest, breeziest, 
I take the road that seems to me 

The kindest and the easiest ; 
And so, though swiftly, day by day 

My skein of life's unravelling, 
I'll still be gayly on my way 

Travelling, just travelling! 



[33] 



A BANJO AT ARMAGEDDON 



THE OLD LOVE 

THEY'VE "lifted" me out of the movies 
The game where I made my hit, 
And they tell me I've struck into wonderful luck 

To play in the real legit, 
I'm featured in first class houses, 

I'm there with the salary, 
And the work's a pipe of the softest type 
— But it's back to the films for me! 

I'm tired of the stagy splendor, 

I'm tired of the calcium glare, 
And I want to play by the light of day 

In the sun and the open air, 
I want to swing in the saddle 

In all of my western gear, 
And play my part with a red, red heart 

— And the camera clicking near! 

I'm going back to the movies 

As soon as I find a chance, 
To the work that's brisk with its daily risk 

Its savor of real romance, 
For the regular stage seems stuffy 

And the regular plays are tame, 
To the thrill and throb of my old time job 

When I played in the movie game! 



[34] 



A BANJO AT ARMAGEDDON 



WHO LAUGHS LAST 

THE tramp looked on at the cavalcade 
As the King went by in his gilt and braid ; 

And he gazed and said, with a heavy sigh, 
"That chap is certainly living high; 

"With all that a fellow would want to drink 
And servants jumping at every wink, 

"And plenty of money and grub — I see 
That a King is a fine old thing to be!" 

Then a soldier thrust the tramp aside 

As the King went on in his purple pride! 

Time passed — and the mighty King lay dead 
And the soldiers marched with a measured tread, 

And the tramp stood watching the cavalcade 

As the dead King passed and the dead march played ; 

And he said, "Poor fellow, his game is done, 
He's finished his drinks and had his fun; 

"The music'll play and the wine will flow 
And the dancers dance — but he won't know; 

[35] 



A BANJO AT ARMAGEDDON 

WHO LAUGHS LAST (continued) 

"And the sun will shine and the breeze'll sigh 

And color and life will greet the eye, 

"And jewels will sparkle and birds will sing, 
But he won't know it — that poor dead King. 

"He'll just lie there in a coffin grim 
— And I'm the fellow who envied him ! 

"Envied him — that poor dead clay, 
And I've got life and the light o' day. 

"A live tramp isn't so much," he said, 

"But he's got the bulge on a King who's dead, 

As the bier went by he raised his cap 

And whispered, smiling, "Good-bye, old chap, 

"I'm sorry for you !" and off he strode 
Humming a song down the dusty road. 



99 



[36] 



A BANJO AT ARMAGEDDON 



LOVE'S FEET LINGER 



OH, let us go a-gipsying, a-gipsying, my own, 
Along the open highway, where all the winds 

have blown ; 
We'll leave the crowded city, the sweat and fret of 

town, 
And on the road to Arcady we'll go a-dancing down. 
My arms shall be your shelter, your eyes shall be my 

light 
(A radiance more wonderful than stars which shine 

at night). 
Away from stony pavements, away from plots and 

schemes, 
We two will go a-gipsying adown the Road of 

Dreams !" 



"I'd like to go a-gipsying, a-gipsying with you, 

But when I think it over I fear it wouldn't do. 

I'd get all tanned and freckled — you know my skin is 

fair — 
And how I'd look without a maid to help me do my 

hair ! 
I'd love to go a-gipsying, a-gipsying, my dear, 
But I should never like the food the gipsies eat, I fear ; 
And though, perhaps, by daytime, the sunshine may be 

gold, 
I'm very sure when evening came I'd catch my death 

of cold ; 

[37] 



A BANJO AT ARMAGEDDON 

LOVE'S FEET LINGER (continued) 
And what with all my luggage, my gowns and lingerie, 
We'd make but little progress on the Road to Arcady ! 
You be a gipsy, sweetheart, a gipsy nice and brown, 
And tell me all about it when you come back to town ; 
For me to go were foolish — and most improper, too! 
So I won't go a-gipsying, a-gipsying with you!" 



[38] 



A BANJO AT ARMAGEDDON 



THE IMPULSE 

PARTNER, I went to a picture show, 
An' gazin' upon the screen, 
My old fool eyes began to glow 

When they put on a western scene. 
The play itself was a foolish reel 

Of villains an' gold an* fight, 
But the country — partner, it made me feel — 
— Well, it kinda bedimmed my sight ; 

For there was the narrow desert trail 

That wanders across the way, 
An' the dust that swirls in the sudden gale 

An' the sage brush, dry an' grey, 
An' the coulee deep, an' the water hole 

An' the old prospector's claim, 
An' all the sights that had stirred my soul 

Before I got old — an' tame. 

An' those actor folks was western, too, 

For they rode with a sort of swing 
Like the old time cowboys used to do 

When a cattleman still was king. 
They rode their bronc's with a careless grace 

Through country rough an' bare, 
It was only a reel — but my blood would race, 

For the scenes that I loved were there! 

[39] 



A BANJO AT ARMAGEDDON 

THE IMPULSE (continued) 

I guess the country has seen a change 

Its wildest of tales is told, 
It ain't the west that I used to range 

In the rollicking days of old, 
But the peaks are white with the ancient snow 

An* the sky is the same blue dome, 
Partner, I went to a picture show 

— An' I reckon I'm goin' home ! 



[40] 



A BANJO AT ARMAGEDDON 



THE HIGH TRAIL 

I'M sick of your mobs and machinery, 
I'm weary of second hand thrills, 
I'm tired of your two-by-four scenery, 

Your nice little valleys and hills; 
I want to see peaks that are bare again 

And ragged and rugged and high, 
To know the old tang in the air again 
And the blue of the clear western sky! 

Once more in each fibre and fold of me 

I feel the old wonderment brew, 
And again has the spell taken hold of me, 

The spell of the mountains I knew; 
So the city means nothing but slavery, 

And my heart is like lead in my breast, 
And life will be stale and unsavory 

Till I stand on the hills of the west. 

Let the homebodies "hobo" and "rover" me, 

Poor plodders, they never can know 
How the fret for the hills has come over me 

And the fever that bids me to go 
Away from traditions gone mouldering, 

Away from the paths overtrod, 
To the place where the mountains are shouldering 

Right up to the Archways of God! 



[41] 



A BANJO AT ARMAGEDDON 



THE SEA WIND 

BELOW the skyline drops the shore, 
The long, grim graybacks lift and fall, 
Against the bows they crash and roar, 
The engine throbs, the sea gulls call, 
And salt against my pallid face 

There comes the challenge bold and free 
Of that world tramp who roams through space, 
The wind — the wind of open sea ! 

Here is no breeze of drowsy lanes 

Nor breath of crowded towns and stale, 
This is the wind that sweeps the mains 

And leaps along the trackless trail, 
And with its savor on my lips 

The ancient joy comes back to me, 
Of those who dared — in Viking ships — 

The wind — the wind of open sea! 

It blows from out the vasty skies 

Across the tumbling sea's expanse, 
It stings to deeds of high emprise, 

It sings of glamor and romance; 
Chill, clean and strong — my pulses leap, 

My heart is filled with buoyant glee, 
I greet the rover of the deep, 

The wind — the wind of open sea! 

[42] 






A BANJO AT ARMAGEDDON 



GYPSY SONG 

THE wind, and the sky, and the sun, 
And the open trail and free, 
A staff and a pack — and One 
To take to the road with me, 
Over the hills that lure, 

Under the trees that sway, 
Laughing and strong, and — poor, 
Out on the wander way ! 

The wind, and the sun, and the sky, 

A star-strewn vault at night, 
And two hearts beating high, 

Athrill with an old delight! 
Out from the fret of the town, 

Free of the ties that gall, 
Venturing up and down, 

Under the wander thrall. 

The sky, and the sun, and the wind, 

And One on the road I fare, 
Slender and gypsy-skinned, 

My gypsy ways to share. 
Life that is void of stress, 

Love that is leal and true; 
The road — and the wind's caress, 

Sun and the sky — and you ! 

[43] 



A BANJO AT ARMAGEDDON 



THE CALL 

SPRING comes on, and they're calling again- 
The trails that I used to know, 
And I feel in my heart I am falling again 

To the ways that the gypsies go, 
And the wagon-train that is crawling again, 
Lazy and calm and slow. 

Spring comes on, and I'm dreaming again 

Of the camp by the dusty road, 
And the Romni's kettle steaming again 

In front of her tent abode, 
And the teeth of the gypsies gleaming again 

As they chant in the Romany code. 

Spring comes on, and I'm learning again 

How the fever to go is strong, 
And deep in my veins it is burning again 

For the life that I lived so long. 
And somehow my feet are turning again 

To the lilt of a gypsy song. 

Spring comes on, and they're calling again — 

The ways that I used to know, 
And the spell of the road is thralling again 

With all of its olden glow, 
As the gypsy train goes crawling again 

Lazy and calm and slow! 

[44] 



A BANJO AT ARMAGEDDON 



AROUND THE FIRE 

WHEN we've finished washing the plates of tin, 
When the darkness falls and the gang comes 
in, 
That's the time when the tales and the talk begin 

In the circle about the fire; 
The talk of the way the day was spent, 
Of the things we did and the roads we went, 
Of pleasant ventures that brought content 
And sated the heart's desire. 

The pipes are lighted, the fellows sit 
Or sprawl about as the shadows flit, 
And there is freedom of thought and wit 

Till the light of the embers dims; 
And then comes singing — from foolish tunes 
Of "pretty maidens" and "kindly moons," 
To old, old songs like your mother croons, 

Soft lullabies — or hymns. 

The night breeze rustles the leaves above, 
And we talk of the things we are fondest of, 
The men we like and the girls we love, 

Who make life worth the fight, 
Till the ash grays over the glowing coals 
And the spirit of drowsiness controls, 
And each man into his blanket rolls, 

With the sleepy word, "Good night!" 

[45l 



A BANJO AT ARMAGEDDON 



SAILING 

THERE are those who prate of the craft whose gait 
is that of a railroad train, 

Who sound their note for the motor boat or the mar- 
vellous hydroplane, 

But the craft I love has sails above and all of the stays 
and gear 

And her lines are neat as the limbs and feet of a beau- 
tiful slender deer; 

She is made for work in the storm and murk yet fit for 
the slightest stir 

When the winds express by a soft caress their love and 
their joy in her; 

She is tight and sound when the billows pound — a joy 
to the sportsman's heart, 

And I know she'd tack round the world and back if 
ever we made the start. 



Oh it's great to drift on the easy lift and swell of the 

summer sea, 
When the wind is soft and the flag aloft is fluttering 

lazily, 
And you smoke and doze as the light wind blows and 

you loaf in a white-winged craft 
And you hear the cry of the gulls that fly along o' the 

waves abaft, 
But it's better to feel the lurch and reel as she heels to 

a booming breeze, 

[46] 



A BANJO AT ARMAGEDDON 

) ' ■— — — — "^— —^^^^—^■^— ^— —■— — ■ 

SAILING (continued) 

When the blocks all creak and the top-stays shriek to 

the crash of the tumbling seas, 
When the sheet is tight with the mainsail's might and 

the gunnels awash beneath 
And she hits her pace in the rushing race with a snowy 

bone in her teeth. 

Oh, then the blood is a glorious flood that's thrilling 

your body through, 
And the salt perfume of the flying spume is breath of 

your life to you; 
You can feel her plunge when the swift winds lunge 

and the wake is a swirl of foam, 
Till you change your route as you come about and 

start on the leg for home. 
Through tingling spray you slash your way, the tiller 

firm in hand, 
While your pulses leap as on you sweep — man, but it's 

grand! It's Grand! 
Let 'em sing their fill of what they will, they can chant 

what joy they please 
But me for the lilt of a yacht atilt in the grip of the 

booming breeze. 



[47] 



A BANJO AT ARMAGEDDON 



TENNIS 

YOU may speak of tennis lightly if you choose, 
You may call it "mollycoddle," but it's not, 
And you'll give the sport its right and proper dues 
If you try a game of singles when it's hot ! 
That'll teach you in a hurry what is what, 
That'll make your forehead run with honest sweat, 

For you'll find you must be Johnny-on-the-spot 
When the ball is whizzing hard across the net! 



It's "Thirty love!" and "Thirty fif !" 

And "Thirty all!" and "Serve!" 
And "Smash him back a low one," 

And "Cut him back a curve !" 
But when it's "Forty thirty!" 

And you think you've "cooked his goose," 
Why, you miss a sizzling Lawford — 

And the score is deuce ! 



When you cut 'em to the corner on the tape, 

When you lob 'em over easy — out of reach, 
Watch the other fellow twist clear out of shape, 

Listen to him as he puts his thoughts in speech! 

But — you watch him or he'll slam you back a peach 
That'll burn the very breezes as it flies, 

That'll hit the distant corner with a screech 
While you look around with wonder in your eyes. 

[48] 



A BANJO AT ARMAGEDDON 

TENNIS (continued) 

It's "Love fifteen !" or twice as bad 

Or worse than that, maybe, 
And you cannot "slice 'em proper" 

And you're almost up a tree, 
But you brace to "Thirty forty !" 

While he's playing fast and loose, 
And you put a hot one over — 

And the score is deuce ! 

Yes, you've got to be a live one — all alert 

When you're waiting for the service— on your toes, 
With the perspiration coming through your shirt 

And the sunshine starting blisters on your nose! 

There is not a single instant you can doze. 
You have got to "hurry hurry !" for your fun, 

And there isn't any mollycoddle pose 
In a lively set of singles in the sun ! 

Your nerves are at a tension, 

Your muscles just the same, 
You've got to be of rubber 

And steel to "play the game !" 
When you're using every effort 

And you're planning every ruse, 
And the score's forever shifting 

Back to deuce, deuce, deuce! 



[49] 



A BANJO AT ARMAGEDDON 



ONLY A DOG 

SOMEBODY poisoned my dog to-day, 
Though he never did any one ill, 
And so he is through with his canine play 

And his wagglety tail is still. 
No more shall I walk in the fields with him 

Along at my side to jog, 
And — I don't care if my eyes are dim — 
Somebody poisoned my dog ! 

He was homely, I know, as a dog could be, 

And only a mongrel, too ; 
But I loved him and he loved me 

As people and dogs may do. 
Nothing on earth could disturb his trust 

Or his love and his faith befog, 
And now he lies here in the dust — 

Somebody poisoned my dog ! 

He crawled to my feet and he licked my hand 

And then with a gasp he died ; 
And — though some people can't understand— 

I patted his head — and cried ! 
For it isn't funny to lose a friend 

From off of this "earthly cog," 
And he was loyal unto the end — 

Somebody poisoned my dog ! 

[50] 



A BANJO AT ARMAGEDDON 

ONLY A DOG (continued) 

I wonder how any one could have done 

This poor little fellow harm; 
But here he lies — his race is run — 

Though his body's still soft and warm. 
My life is lived on a peaceful plan, 

My pace is a quiet jog, 
But — I wish I could find the snake of a man 

Who poisoned my little dog! 



[51] 



CITY BALLADS 



A BANJO AT ARMAGEDDON 



PRISONER 

THE hills call, and the roads call, and the sea, 
With voices of remembered deeds and days, 
Of winds that roam the world forever free 

Tempting the rover to the wander- ways ; 
Yet though these voices hold their spell for me 

Still do I linger in the city's maze, 
Thralled by the loud conglomerate minstrelsy 
Of rumbling whistles and of hurrying feet, 
Of roaring traffic and the clamant beat 

Of hammers on the ringing ribs of steel; 
This is the city's summons, this the call 
Drowning the gentler voices, one and all, 
In rolling music of its vast appeal ! 

And if I seek the road, the sea, the hills, 
A little space their ancient glamor fills 

My utmost need ; but presently I know 
A longing for the tumult and the press 

The fret and haste, the glitter and the show, 
The vast and never sated restlessness 

And all the sounds of avenue and slum 
Which make the city ; when I hear her voice 
I turn my footsteps homeward — and rejoice! 

The city calls — I come ! 



[55] 



A BANJO AT ARMAGEDDON 



MODERN 

NEW clothes, new hats, new streets, new flats, 
New restaurants and drinking places; 
New gems and gauds, new shams and frauds, 
New poor, new rich, new sights, new faces, 
New truths, new lies, new laughs, new cries, 

New shows, new fads, new lofty prices, 
New gilded baits, new loves, new hates, 
New fashions, virtues, and new vices. 

New crimes, new jails, new bargain sales, 

New spendthrifts, misers, thieves and gleaners, 
New foreign earls, new pretty girls, 

New servants and pneumatic cleaners, 
New failures, yes and new success, 

New news of life that ever varies, 
New cheap cigars, new Broadway stars, 

New suburbs and new cemeteries. 

New pleasures, pains, new water mains, 

New slang, new jokes, new songs, new dances, 
New clubs, new signs, new foods, new wines, 

New snug retreats — and new advances, 
New swell hotels, new "tubes" and "L's," 

New homes just gladdened by the stork, 
New sport, new noise, new woes, new joys, 

New names, new fames, new games — NEW 
YORK! 

[56] 



A BANJO AT ARMAGEDDON 



THE MOUTH-WATERING PLACE 

THE candy shop's certainly highly attractive 
I gaze in its windows each day, 
And wish, with a wisher decidedly active, 

To sample the wares on display ; 
A fruiterer's window is quite "prepossessin' " 

With grapes and with apples galore, 
But best of them all is the Delicatessen 

Store. 

One gazes with glee on delectable salads 

And roasts that are luscious and red, 
On pickles and cheese that are worthy of ballads 

And beautiful caraway bread ; 
To know what to buy keeps you plannin' and 
guessin' 
You want to get things by the score, 
For tempting indeed is the Delicatessen 

Store. 

Now some of us hanker for riches enormous 

For autos and aeros and such, 
For houses to shelter and fur coats to warm us 

But those don't appeal to me much; 
If I had my wish there'd be only one blessin' 

One single rich gift I'd implore, 
I'd think myself rich were I only possessin' 
A Delicatessen 

Store! 

[57] 



A BANJO AT ARMAGEDDON 



THE SPELL OF THE RIALTO 

WE killed 'em all along the line 
From Rochester to Kokomo, 
You ought to hear 'em boost the show, 
They certainly did like it fine ! 
We used that old S. R. O. sign 

Night after night, day after day, 
But oh, I longed to see 'em shine 
—The Lights along the Great White Way. 



I had no kick on salary 

The tour had paid, and paid us well, 

From Portland, O, to New Rochelle 
Things were as good as they could be ; 
Big bands, big houses, — praises free 

For all the actors and the play, 
But still they kept on calling me, 

— The Lights along the Great White Way ! 



The show is coining money still 
And pleasing every joyous Rube, 
— I reckon I'm an awful Boob, 

But, well — I sort of chafed, until 

I had a chance to quit the bill 

Give up my part and draw my pay 

— And I came home to know the thrill 
Of Lights along the Great White Way. 

[58] 



A BANJO AT ARMAGEDDON 

THE SPELL OF THE RIALTO (continued) 
The Big Town's got me — God knows why 

It never seemed to treat me fair 

I've starved and bummed and struggled there 
And fortune never raised me high 
Yet when Fm gone for long, I sigh 

And dream about it, night and day, 
Until again they greet my eye 

—The Lights along the Great White Way. 

Go on, speak all that's on your tongue 

I'm every kind of fool you say, 
But, brother, I am back among 

The Lights along the Great White Way! 



[59] 



A BANJO AT ARMAGEDDON 



THE FERRY BOAT 

THE haughty liner swaggers by and hoots her scorn 
of me 
For she will buffet combers high and cross the open 

sea, 
And she's the grandest thing afloat as all the world 

may know 
While I am but a common boat that shuttles to and 

fro; 
And yet, she needn't be so proud, for in my humble 

way, 
I carry twenty times her crowd and do it every day, 
If she should miss her sailing date few worries would 

increase 
But let the ferries stop and straight a city's work will 

cease. 

Back and forth, back and forth 

Morning, noon and night, 
Unromantic, commonplace, 

Clumsy to the sight, 
Keeping up the city's life 

Work and love and fight. 

The tug boats scutter round about in search of work 
to do, 

The small boats putter in and out the path that I pur- 
sue, 

And ugly groups of barges drift adown the river wide 

[60] 



A BANJO AT ARMAGEDDON 

THE FERRY BOAT (continued) 

Or frowsy-canvased schooners lift their anchors from 

the tide, 
They know adventure now and then, the new, the 

quaint, the strange, 
I only serve the need of men with never turn nor 

change, 
And yet of this much I may boast, with never-tiring 

toil, 
I carry forth the human host to labor or to spoil. 

Back and forth, back and forth 

That's my little run 
Bringing people to their toil 

Home when it is done, 
Keeping up the city's life 

Work and love and fun ! 

I bring the farmer's boy uncouth with wonder in his 

heart 
But who with dauntless soul of youth will storm the 

city's mart, 
I bring the joyous and the sad, the mighty and the 

spent, 
The young, the old, the good, the bad, the meek or 

insolent, 
Thronging my level decks they come because the city 

calls 
And soon their myriad voices hum within the crowded 

walls, 
I take them to their daily work with pickaxe or with 

pen, 
And when the evening shadows lurk I start them home 

again. 

[61] 



A BANJO AT ARMAGEDDON 



THE COMMUTER 

HE eats his breakfast worriedly 
His eye upon the clock 
Then seeks the station hurriedly 

And runs the final block. 
He has a grave propensity 

To miss the 8.15 
Which brings that strained intensity 
Upon his harried mien. 

His day is spent in laboring 

For gold with fervid vim 
So that commuters neighbouring 

May have no edge on him, 
And just to make more humorous 

His day of toil and fret 
His wife has errands numerous 

Which he must not forget. 

He hurries back in summer time 

To mow and rake the lawn. 
In winter's greyer, glummer time 

When all the grass is gone 
He rushes homeward hastily 

To shovel off the snow 
And heap it up quite tastily 

Or make the furnace go. 
[62] 



A BANJO AT ARMAGEDDON 

THE COMMUTER (continued) 

When shows and things occur by night 

He rarely sees them through 
His train — ah poor suburbanite 

Leaves at 11.02, 
And yet with noble bravery 

He glories in his chains 
Although his life's a slavery 

To schedules and trains ! 



[63] 



A BANJO AT ARMAGEDDON 



THE LONESOME COP 

I USED to be in where the people was thick and the 
lights was a regular glare 
Where the taxicabs honked and the trolley bells 

clanged and the traffic was moving for fair, 
I used to be standing and waving my hands in a calm 

and imperial way 
And the people on foot and the people in cars — well I 

reckon they had to obey; 
And the men they would nod and the pretty girls smile 

in a way that was certainly fine 
In the beautiful time when I stood on my post where 

the lights of the theatres shine, 
But I got myself queered with the boss of the ward 

and "Out to the suburbs !" says he 
So I'm padding the grit in this desolate spot and it 

don't make no ten strike with me. 

For there's nobody comes and there's nobody goes and 
there's nothing that happens at all 

Excepting the voice of a cat now and then or a baby 
that lets out a squall 

For this is a lonesome suburbanite joint where the peo- 
ple turn in before ten, 

And I walk up and down on my nice little beat and 
then do it over again, 

So I yawn and I sigh and I sigh and I yawn till the 
milk wagons come about four 

[6 4 ] 



A BANJO AT ARMAGEDDON 

THE LONESOME COP (continued) 

And I talk with the drivers a minute or two and then 

go on yawning some more, 
I wish I was back in the heart of the town where 

there's something to watch and to see 
This post might be fine for old Robinson Crusoe, but 

say — it's a lemon for me ! 



[65] 



A BANJO AT ARMAGEDDON 



ON THE CITY STREET 

FREE of all enslavement, 
Free of fret and care, 
Youth, upon the pavement ; 

Dances to the air 
Of a street piano 

While a joyous note 
Comes in shrill soprano 
From each childish throat. 

As the tune is ringing 

Through the dingy street 
Blithe young bodies swinging 

Dance on rhythmic feet ; 
'Mid the city's clamor 

'Mid the smoke and grime, 
Comes the golden glamor 

Of a vanished time. 

Here, in garments scanty, 

Somehow we can see, 
Many a young bacchante 

Many a dryad free, 
Somehow we are glancing 

At a pagan clan, 
— Fauns and wood-nymphs dancing 

To the Pipes o' Pan! 

[66] 



A BANJO AT ARMAGEDDON 



THE LONESOMEST TIME 

THE lonesomest time and the lonesomest place 
And the drabbest and dreariest, too, 
Is not in a desert of limitless space 
Nor the heart of a forest where leaves interlace 

And the owls sound their spooky "To-whooo-oo !" 
No, the lonesomest place is a white light cafe 
When the guests and the waiters are all gone away 

And in place of the lights and the babel 
There's only the clock-tick, the light from the street, 
A smell of damp floors and of stale things to eat, 

And the sight of the chairs on each table, 

The chairs stacked up high on each table. 

Why, it's scary to peek through the doorway and see 

That dining place empty and dead, 
Where, earlier, crowds of gay people would be 
With music and chatter and laughter and glee 

And the wine glowing, yellow and red. 
It's ghostly and spooky and shrouded and grey 
When the guests and the waiters have all gone away 

And the murk in the corners is sable, 
And once you have seen it so gloomy and cold 
It never seems quite the same place as of old. 
The glamor is vanished, and tarnished the gold, 

When the chairs are piled up on each table, 

The empty chairs stacked on each table. 



[67] 



A BANJO AT ARMAGEDDON 



A PANTOUM OF REHEARSAL 



LADIES, we'll try that again. 
Sing, for the Love of Mike, sing ! 
Hi there, you bum chorus men, 
You've got to foork in this thing. 

Sing, for the Love of Mike, sing ! 

Quit falling over your feet. 
You've got to <work in this thing ; 

One — two — three — four — and repeat. 

Quit falling over your feet — 
Say, could you dance on a bet? 

One — two — three— four and repeat 
— Now for the little soubrette. 

Say, could you dance on a bet? 

Let's have the milliner's song ; 
Now comes the little soubrette — 

No, no, you're singing it wrong ! 

Let's have the milliner's song. 

Wow ! But you're rotten to-day ! 
No, no — you're singing it wrong ; 

It won't get over that way ! 

Wow ! but you're rotten to-day — 
Worse than you commonly are. 
[68] 



A BANJO AT ARMAGEDDON 

A PANTOUM OF REHEARSAL (continued) 
It won't get over that way — 
Where in the hell is the star? 

(Worse than you commonly are) 
Gee, but you give me a pain ! 

Where in the hell is the star? 
Oh, how de do, Miss Elaine ! 

(Gee, but you give me a pain ; 

Making the crowd of us wait) 
Oh, how de do, Miss Elaine ! 

Oh no, you're not very late. 

(Making the crowd of us wait — 
This thing is growing a bore.) 

Oh no, you're not very late, 
Now, let's get busy once more! 

This thing is growing a bore. 

Hi there, you bum chorus men ! 
Now let's get busy once more — 

Ladies, we'll try that again ! 



[69] 



A BANJO AT ARMAGEDDON 



AN EASY TASK 

I'VE a couple of Tango dancers hired 
They're a regular, surething riot, 
There's a tropical "set" that I've acquired 

And I'm waiting a chance to try it. 
I've a first class circus contortionist 

And I'm simply compelled to use him 

For I've got him down on the salary list 

And there isn't a chance to lose him. 

I've some scenery left from an Eskimo play 

And some costumes of 1820, 
And a heavy man who is drawing pay 

And drawing it good and plenty, 
There's a pantomime team that I got from France 

And a Viennese girl soprano 
And a comic guy with a freakish dance 

Who's a whale on the grand piano. 

I've got my hooks on a troupe of seals 

That act in a way most human, 
And some wonderful moving picture reels 

And a top notch leading woman, 
People are spending to beat the band 

And I sure do want to hit 'em 
— Look over these features I have on hand 

And make me a play to fit 'em ! 



[70] 



A BANJO AT ARMAGEDDON 



TO DOUG. 

MOST of the movie folk fill me with weariness, 
Most of the films are a horrible bore, 
Chaplin instils me with feelings of dreariness, 
Arbuckle thrills me with thirst for his gore ; 
Yet when I notice the placards that feature you 

I join the line, like the veriest bug, 
How can I help it, you blithe, healthy creature, you, 
Doug! 

You are the spirit of Pan at his happiest 

You are a faun that is brought up to date, 
You are the huskiest, liveliest, snappiest 
Picture of youth in its joyous estate; 
Huge are the sums that the gossips are saying you 

Add every day to your bank account snug ; 
Well, you're worth more than whatever they're paying 
you, 

Doug! 

« 
Why, just your smile — who can figure the worth of it? 

Leaping so boyishly out of the screen, 
All of the whimsical, magical mirth of it 

Welling up fresh from a heart that is clean, 
You're like a breeze with the tang of the west to it, 

Ever a tonic and never a drug, 
You bring romance with a glorious zest to it, 
Doug! 

[71] 



A BANJO AT ARMAGEDDON 



THE DIFFERENCE 

TRAGEDY stalks about the stage 
A picture of gloom and woe 
And mouths its agony, pain and rage 
For all of the house to know. 

But Tragedy, out in the world of men 

Is decked in the garb of glee, 
And we know it not when it meets our ken 

In the make-up of Comedy. 

It greets our eyes in the smile of a friend 

In sounds in a voice that's gay 
And we never learn till the very end 

That Tragedy ruled the play. 

Though woes be plenty and joys be sparse, 

All life is a game grotesque, 
So Tragedy plays the part of farce 

Or poses in cheap burlesque. 

It hides the marks of the scourging rods 
And plods through its daily task 

And screens its face from the gallery gods 
With a grin for a tragic mask ! 



[72] 



FARCE AND FRIVOL 



A BANJO AT ARMAGEDDON 



AMBITION 

I WANT to be a Highbrow, 
I want to take my stand, 
With elevated eye-brow 

And manner very grand, 
Amid the tea-room chatter 

And learnedly rehearse 
Exactly what's the matter 
With all the universe. 

I want to be a Highbrow 

With esoteric ways, 
Who looks, with very wry brow, 

On things that others praise ; 
Who passes cruel strictures 

On artists who can draw, 
But raves o'er Cubist pictures 

With rapt adoring awe! 

I want to be a Highbrow 

Who follows mystic creeds, 
And laurel-decks the shy brow 

Of poets no one reads, 
I'd join the weird outre rites 

Of ultra Highbrow bands, 
Discussing unknown playwrights, 

Whom no one understands. 

[75] 



A BANJO AT ARMAGEDDON 

AMBITION (continued) 

I want to be a Highbrow, 

With air of perfect poise, 
Who lifts a scornful eyebrow 

At all the rough world's noise, 
Oh, I could fill with glee so 

Desirable a shelf, 
— A Highbrow seems to be so 

Delighted with himself! 



[76] 



A BANJO AT ARMAGEDDON 



w e: 



PLAYING SAFE 

ILL, I was out a walkin' on the barren western 
plains, 

When I seen a schooner scuddin' on her after anchor 
chains, 
To the captain then I said 
"What you got inside yer head? 
It must be tar an' oakum fer it certain isn't brains. 

"I have seen a purple camel in a corner hardware store 
I have seen a whale performin' on a stick of two by 
four 

I have seen an' I have heard 

Things that never has occurred, 
But I never seen a schooner sailin' on the land before. 

"So I asks you, kind an* pleasant, an' I hopes you'll 

answer me 
Why you sails across the hummocks which is rough as 
they can be, 
Seems to me yer course is quaint 
An' some hard upon yer paint 
An' besides, a sailin' vessel ought 'a sail upon the sea." 

The captain of the schooner takes another chew of 

plug 
An' replies to me in accents like the whistle of a tug 

[77] 



A BANJO AT ARMAGEDDON 

PLAYING SAFE (continued) 

An' I has to stand an' hear 

While he tells my whole career 
In a manner most offensive like a tough an' ugly thug. 

But at last he gives his reasons, which is simple an* 

complete, 
Says he, "I sails my schooner o'er the fields of wavin' 
wheat 
An' keeps her right on land 
Just because, you understand 
If she happens for to founder I won't have to wet me 
feet. 

"For oh I does abominate the water when it's wet 
An' the last time I was ship wrecked I won't never 
more forget 

For because the waves they rolled 

An' I ketched an' awful cold 
An' I quit the briny ocean an' I'm quittin' of it yet !" 

Then he hoists his scupper capstan an' he reefs the 

after rail 
An' he starts the log to rollin' an' the schooner hits the 
trail 
An' I waves my hat to him 
Till his porty form is dim 
An' below the far horizon comes the moon arisin' pale. 



[78] 



A BANJO AT ARMAGEDDON 



THE BAD MANNERED PIRATE 

WE were drinkin' of our tea 
Captain Harrigan an' me 
When a pirut chieftain hailed us an' he says to us, 
says he, 
"I demand yer little ship !" 
Captain takes another sip 
An' he says to that there pirut, "Very well sir, let 'er 
rip." 

So the piruts dumb aboard 
An' a pirut song they roared 
An' they went an' took the treasure which was quite a 
little hoard ! 
They was kind of rough, it's true 
For they butchered of the crew 
An' they strangled all the passengers, which wasn't 
nice to do! 

We went on a drinkin' tea, 

Captain Harrigan an' me 
Though he says, "I'm kinda thinkin' them there piruts 
is too free. 

True, they ain't a troublin' us 

An' there ain't no use to fuss, 
But that captain of the piruts is a most insultin* cuss." 

They was pretty coarse an' loud 
Heavy faced an' beetle browed 

[79] 



A BANJO AT ARMAGEDDON 

THE BAD MANNERED PIRATE (continued) 
An* their talk was somethin' awful even fer a pirut 
crowd 

Says the Captain, "I declare 

It ain't really my affair 
But that chief of all the piruts is a party I can't bear !" 

He had scurcely said the word 
When a wicked curse was heard 
An' a most amazin' outrage then an' there at once oc- 
curred, 
Fer that pirut chief he come 
Havin' drunk a lot of rum 
An' he overturns our tea cups— "Well," the Captain 
says, "I vum! 

"I have stood a awful lot," 
Says the Captain, gettin' hot, 
"But when you spills my tea cup you has hit a tender 
spot 
I kin stand it fer to see 
All my treasure took from me 
An' my crew a gettin' slaughtered, but you mustn't 
spill my tea." 

So we started fer that bunch 
Which had spoiled our tea an' lunch 
An' we shot 'em an' we hacked 'em an' we give 'em 
punch fer punch 
An' at last when we was through 
Out of all that pirut crew 
There was nuthin' but the chieftain, which his gills 
was very blue. 

[80] 



A BANJO AT ARMAGEDDON 

THE BAD MANNERED PIRATE (continued) 

Then we laid him on the deck 

Right amid the blood an' wreck 
An' we boiled that pirut chieftain pourin' hot tea down 
his neck 

Which, when done, why Cap an' me 

Went on sippin' of our tea 
As is the common custom of all sailormen at sea! 



[81] 



A BANJO AT ARMAGEDDON 



LEARNING TO WRITE 

(Can You Translate?) 

MY ink eraser's worn quite through 
From rubbing out mistakes 
Which, spite of all that I can do, 

My fool typewriter makes. 
For when I try to make an "a" 

(One has to write a few) 
In some quite dark and devious way 

I spell it with a "q." 
Qnd thqt, qs you cqn plqinly see, 
Is likely to embqrrqss me. 

Now, "e" 's a letter used so oft 

It surely seems that I 
Should find it really very soft 

To handle cleverly. 
And yet, when writing in a sweat, 

I find — a dreadful bore — 
That where I wanted "e" I get 

Instead of "e" a "4." 
TI14 which, as anyon4 may not4, 
D04S not improv4 what I "hav4 wrot4. 3 



Then "t" and "y" °r "y" and "u, 
Which seem beneath a spell, 
[82] 



99 



A BANJO AT ARMAGEDDON 

LEARNING TO WRITE (continued) 

Transpose and get themselves askew 

The same as V and "1." 
The"," and the"?" 

Get changed about in place, 
Until you'd think that in the dark 

I'd tried my words to trace. 
Yhis syrange pecupiaritt 
Is not? you know? a thing of glee. 

Then oftentimes a "b" I find 

When what I want is "n," 
Or with quotation marks in mind 

I get a "2" — and then 
To that I add this little / 

When I but sought a . 
And other errors, too, are mine, 

I count them by the myriad. 
And when my little sobg is sung, 
I'm often forced to mutter, 2STUBG2/ 

Morqp. 

When writibg things on your mqchibe 
Be syre tour ey4S are V4ru keen 
Qnd thqt uour fing4rs do not stray 
On k4ys they wer4 not meqbt to lpay, 
For oyherwise? ther4 is no dount? 
Your 2copt2 cab't be pyzzlqd out/ 

N4RYOB NRQP4U 
(Berton Braley), 



1 83] 



A BANJO AT ARMAGEDDON 



YE FINAL TESTE 

Being Ye Most Solemn and Veracious Ballad of John 

Henry 

JOHN HENRY was a college Man 
Of Herculean mold, 
A Hammer Thrower great was he 
A Footballe player bold, 

Atte baseballe he was eke no slouche 

Atte Golf he was a crack, 
He did excell atte rowing, too, 

And also on ye track ! 

One summer atte ye close of school 

Whenas ye days grew warm, 
John Henry cried, "I will go forthe 

To labour on a farm; 



« 



Yea, I will be a Hired Man 
Engaged in Husbandry 
Accumulating strength and tan 
And shekels, too, maybe." 

Ye farmer hailed him with much joy 
And hired him on ye spotte, 

And sware by all his cows and pigges 
To show him what is what. 

[84] 



A BANJO AT ARMAGEDDON 

YE FINAL TESTE (continued) 

"Oh he shall rise before ye dawn 

And swink ye livelong day, 
And he shall find how toil and work 

Are different than play, 

"His brow shall sweat, his backe shall ache 
With harvest work and such, 

I guesse I'll show this Ath-a-lete 
That he ain't such a much." 

John Henry ploughed, John Henry sowed, 

John Henry harrowed, too, 
He pitched and mowed ye new mown hay 

With muscles strong and true, 

He laboured in ye harvest field 

Whenas ye sun beat down 
He wore ye husky farmer out, 

This college boy from town ; 

He worked all day — yet danced each night 
"This job's a cinch," quoth he, 

"Lay on Macduff, for I am tough, 
Ye cannot weary me." 

Then uppe there spoke ye Farmer's Wife 
"John Henry," then, she cried, 

"Ye hired girl hath gone to town 
I want your help inside." 

She bade him sweep, she bade him dust 

And help to wash ye duds, 
She bade him feed ye pigs and chicks 

And peel ye dinner spuds, 
,85] 



A BANJO AT ARMAGEDDON 

YE FINAL TESTE (continued) 

She made him cook and scrub ye floors 

And wash ye dishes, too, 
She kept him always on ye jump 

With never rest in view. 

And when ye housework all was done 
"John Henry," then said she, 

"There is ye milking yet to do 
And ye must milk with me. 3 



>5 



John Henry he was worn and wan 

And pale of face and browe 
But gallantly he took his paile 

And sat beside ye cow, 

He drew ye milk from bossies Three 

He tried to make it four, 
But lo, his mightie arms grew limp 

He fainted on ye floor, 

'Twas long before they brought him to 
His strength had all but fled, 

John Henry, College Ath-a-lete 
Was really sick abed ; 

Yette when she'd helped to tuck him in 

Ye farmer's littel spouse 
Went trotting blithely to ye barn 

And finished up ye cows! 



[86] 



A BANJO AT ARMAGEDDON 



B-r-r-r- 

NOW the morning bath is colder and the winds are 
sharper, bolder 
And the snow and sleet are falling here and there, 
Now the city lights are blazing with a radiance amaz- 
ing 
And the pleasure-seekers gather in their glare ; 
Now the coal men gently snicker as the bank roll's 
growing thicker 
While they're grabbing all the traffic will allow, 
Now the streets are bad for carting and the engine's 
slow in starting 
And the jacket's on the radiator now. 



When the winter top is fitted summer's balminess has 
flitted 
But the bite of wintry breezes seems afar, 
And there's lots of time remaining while the autumn's 
gently waning 
When the robes and top are useless on the car ; 
But we know that winter's nearing when the hoods be- 
gin appearing 
With their neatly quilted covers on the prow, 
So we seek the proper channels for the purchase of our 
flannels 
For the jacket's on the radiator now. 

[87] 



A BANJO AT ARMAGEDDON 

B-R-R-R- (continued) 

It's the time for furs and heaters in the six and seven 
seaters 
When the engine wears an overcoat outside, 
It's a time when chauffeurs shiver in a Panhard or a 
Flivver 
And an open car's an awful thing to ride, 
Yes, the chill and arctic blizzard penetrates the very 
gizzard 
And on country roads you really need a plough, 
As the mercury is falling and the engine often stall- 
ing— 
For the jacket's on the radiator now. 

Now's the time when tropic touring looks exceedingly 
alluring 
As your nose gets blue and bluer in the breeze, 
And the steering wheel is yanking 'spite of chains for- 
ever clanking 
And the gasoline is liable to freeze, 
Now's the season when you coddle dreams of owning 
next year's model 
And a hopeful glow irradiates your brow, 
Now — to sum it all together — comes the real old win- 
ter weather 
For the jacket's on the radiator now! 



[88] 



A BANJO AT ARMAGEDDON 



THE MISANTHROPE 

MOSTLY I love my fellow men, 
But I get weary now and then 
Of all they do and all they say, 
Their way of work, of life, of play, 
And on occasions such as that 
I hie me to my little fiat 
And glower at the world, and swear 
At everybody everywhere ! 

In wrathful dreams I take a poke 
At all my friends, my foes I choke, 
The idle rich, the common host, 
The good and bad alike I roast, 
And when the slaughter is complete 
(Within my mind), why, life is sweet! 
I am not often taken thus 
But when I am — I'm murderous ! 

Mostly, I say, I love mankind, 
Its funny ways I do not mind, 
But just about two times a year 
If I could see my pathway clear, 
I'd go and find some gloomy cave 
Where I could sit and rave and rave 
And have my fill of angry fun 
Hooting loud hoots at every one ! 

[89] 



A BANJO AT ARMAGEDDON 



THE LIMIT 

MY small change I can never save 
In lackeys' pockets it doth clink, 
The tipping habit holds me slave 
Its fetters bind me, link by link ; 
I'm weak — a fact I may not blink — 
I have no courage to employ, 

Yet there are depths I cannot sink — 
I will not tip the washroom boy ! 

I tip the barber for my shave, 

The waiter, hatboy, and the gink 
Who shines my shoes ; I cannot brave 

The bellhop's wrath, but slip him chink. 

I dare not from the chauffeur slink 
Without a tip, nor from the coy 

Young dame who keeps my nails so pink ; 
But I won't tip the washroom boy ! 



Abas! that swart and stealthy knave 
Who fills the washbowl to the brink 

Whenas my hands I wish to lave, 
Who comes with guileful smile and wink 
And gives me scented soap. I think 

He only does it to annoy, 
Of nuisances he is the "kink," 

I will not tip the washroom boy! 

[90] 



A BANJO AT ARMAGEDDON 
THE LIMIT (continued) 

Envoy 

Prince, write this down in fadeless ink 
This high resolve naught shall destroy, 

Except to tip him in the drink, 
I will not tip the washroom boy. 



[91] 



A BANJO AT ARMAGEDDON 



THE CYNICS' DIALOGUE 

He 

ONE surely cannot call me ultracynical, 
In fact, I rather hate the sceptic touch; 
But woman, smirking on the highest pinnacle 

Of human virtue, irritates me much : 
To me she seems a creature of fragility, 
Her ways are undependable and vain, 
And all her moods of careless instability 
Give me a pain ! 



She 



Men weary me, maintaining such an attitude; 

Their arrogant assumptions I despise, 
They're always spouting forth some moldy platitude 

And then exclaiming: "Aren't we Great and Wise?" 
The clumsy way they do things sets me wondering — 

I don't see how they ever got this far, 
Thick-witted creatures, every moment blundering, 
That's what they are ! 



He 



A woman's fad for dress is quite notorious- 
It's only of such fripperies she thinks; 

[92] 



A BANJO AT ARMAGEDDON 
THE CYNICS DIALOGUE (continued) 

She 

It ill becomes a man to be censorious 

Since men think mainly of their food — and drinks ! 

He 

The women are the cause of "caste" and snobbery, 
Their social bee is honestly a curse ; 



She 



But men, in politics, make graft and jobbery, 
And that is worse ! 



He 



Let us assume some man should now disclose to you 
His honest love — suppose that man were I — 

Assume, with all his faults, he should propose to you 
How would you treat him, if he dared to try? 



She 



Well, if he'd be as tender as he could to me, 
And never let the lamp of love burn dim, 
If you — if He, I mean, would just be good to me, 
I'd marry him ! 



[93] 



A BANJO AT ARMAGEDDON 



HOT WEATHER 

I WISH I were a polar bear, up north where heat 
waves solar bear 
Less heavily on animals and Esquimaux and such, 
I'd take my ursine family and in an ice cave, clammily 
And chillily we'd linger and enjoy it very much. 

Or, if I were a whale, away through waters blue I'd 
sail away 
(Or swim, if you prefer it, but the other made a 
rime) 
To waters flowing frigidly where I could freeze up 
rigidly 
And have a cool vacation and a very pleasant time. 

I'd give a pink begonia to bathe in pure ammonia, 
("Begonia — ammonia" — no other rimes would do) 

For though it suffocated me while it refrigerated me 
I'd be completely heatless till the arctic bath was 
through. 

Oh strip me of my covering while all this heat is hov- 
ering 
And fill me full of liquid air, no matter what the 
price, 
I'm stuck to by my underwear and constantly I wonder 
where 
A man can find a tailor who could make a suit of ice. 

[94] 






A BANJO AT ARMAGEDDON 



FRANKNESS BETWEEN FRIENDS 

SAYS Henry Smith to me one day, 
"I got a few short words to say, 
The which, I want it understood, 
I'm tellin' you for your own good. 
An' so I'll say, most free an' frank, 
The way you act is something rank! 
You drink too much, you smoke, you chew, 
You swear like common sailors do, 
You gamble too, an' lead a life 
Most aggravatin' to your wife; 
An' folks is sayin' all the time 
The way you carry on's a crime! 
Why don't you straighten up — I would — 
I'm tellin' you for your own good!" 

Says I to Mr. Henry Smith, 
"Since we are just like kin an' kith, 
An' since you told me where I fail 
An' why I oughta be in jail, 
I'll speak a little word or two 
Explainin' what is wrong with you ; 
The hull of which, it's understood, 
I'm tellin' you fer your own good. 

"First then," I says, "you're such a cheat 
You swindle every one you meet, 
You chant your anthems in the church 

[95] 



A BANJO AT ARMAGEDDON 

FRANKNESS BETWEEN FRIENDS (continued) 
An* leave your neighbor in the lurch; 
You seize an' grab by force an' fraud 
An' call it all the will uv God. 
In short, to say it brief an' quit, 
You're miser, crook an* hypocrite, 
You'd rob a baby if you could — 
I'm tellin' you for your own good!" 



But Henry Smith was very queer, 
He hit me just behind the ear ; 
"Of course," he says, "it's understood, 
I'm sluggin' you for your own good ! 



» 



Five coppers come up in their cart 
An' pried us old time friends apart, 
They took their sticks uv loaded wood 
An' clubbed us hard for our own good. 

In court the Judge says, "Gentlemen, 
Don't try to be so frank again, 
Be chary of the words you speak 
Lest you be swatted on the cheek; 
I fine you ten — it's understood 
I'm doing it for your own good." 

The moral is, don't be too frank, 

It gits you nuthin' at the bank, 

Just keep your thoughts beneath your hood, 

I'm tellin' you for your own good. 



[96] 



BALLADS OF THE WORKADAY 
ADVENTURERS 



A BANJO AT ARMAGEDDON 



OPPORTUNITY 

WITH doubt and dismay you are smitten 
You think there's no chance for you, son? 
Why, the best books haven't been written 

The best race hasn't been run, 
The best score hasn't been made yet, 

The best song hasn't been sung, 
The best tune hasn't been played yet, 
Cheer up, for the world is young! 

No chance? Why the world is just eager 

For things that you ought to create 
Its store of true wealth is still meagre 

Its needs are incessant and great, 
It yearns for more power and beauty 

More laughter and love and romance, 
More loyalty, labor and duty, 

No chance — why there's nothing but chance ! 

For the best verse hasn't been rhymed yet, 

The best house hasn't been planned, 
The highest peak hasn't been climbed yet, 

The mightiest rivers aren't spanned, 
Don't worry and fret, faint hearted, 

The chances have just begun, 
For the Best jobs haven't been started, 

The Best work hasn't been done. 



[99l 



A BANJO AT ARMAGEDDON 



THE ADDED INGREDIENT 

BUILDER, make me a house, 
Giving your skill and care to it, 
Build it sturdy and strong 

With comfort and warmth and wear to it. 

Builder, make me a house 

With all of your wisest thought in it, 
With some of the hopes you've known 

And some of the dreams you've sought in it. 

Build it the best you know 

From roof to the basement loam of it, 
And I will find me a girl 

And she will make me a home of it! 



[ioo] 



A BANJO AT ARMAGEDDON 



TRIBUTE 

HE was a big man, fellows, 
And lived as a big man should, 
He was five feet six in his stocking feet 

But let it be understood 
He was six feet five in the soul of him 
And all fine metal, the whole of him. 

Yes, "big" is the word that fits him, 

For only his frame was small, 
There was nothing little and nothing mean 

In the heart of his heart, at all; 
He met with a smile what came to him 
And life was a great big game to him. 

He held himself to a standard 
A code that was clean and high, 

But looked on the failings of others 
With a tolerant, kindly eye; 

Though again and again deceived in them, 

He loved his friends — and believed in them. 

He never was out for trouble 

Yet when there was need to fight, 

He fought to the last ounce in him 
For what he believed was right, 

Winning, he scarcely spoke of it ; 

Losing, he made a joke of it. 

[ioi] 



A BANJO AT ARMAGEDDON 

TRIBUTE (continued) 

For he was a big man, fellows, 

And when I am lifeless clay, 
I'd like to think you could look on me 

As you do on him, and say, 
"A man's brave soul was expressed in him 
He was Big — and true to the best in him!" 



[102] 



A BANJO AT ARMAGEDDON 



START WHERE YOU STAND 

(When a man who had been in the penitentiary ap- 
plied to Henry Ford for employment, he started to tell 
Mr. Ford his story. "Never mind," said Mr. Ford, "I 
don't care about the past. Start where you stand!") 

START where you stand and never mind the past, 
The past won't help you in beginning new, 
If you have left it all behind at last 
Why, that's enough, you're done with it, you're 
through ; 
This is another chapter in the book, 

This is another race that you have planned, 
Don't give the vanished days a backward look, 
Start where you stand. 

The world won't care about your old defeats 

If you can start anew and win success, 
The future is your time, and time is fleet 

And there is much of work and strain and stress; 
Forget the buried woes and dead despairs, 

Here is a brand new trial right at hand, 
The future is for him who does and dares, 

Start where you stand. 

Old failures will not halt, old triumphs aid, 
To-day's the thing, to-morrow soon will be; 

[103] 



A BANJO AT ARMAGEDDON 

START WHERE YOU STAND (continued) 
Get in the fight and face it, unafraid 

And leave the past to ancient history; 
What has been, has been; yesterday is dead 

And by it you are neither blessed or banned, 
Take courage, man, be brave and drive ahead, 

Start where you stand ! 



[104] 



A BANJO AT ARMAGEDDON 



NEWARK— THE BUILDER 

(This Poem won one of the Prizes at the Newark 
Anniversary Celebration, 1917.) 

NEVER a jungle is penetrated, 
Never an unknown sea is dared, 
Never adventure is consummated, 

Never a faint new trail is fared, 
But that some dreamer has had the vision 

Which leads men on to the ends of earth, 
That laughs at doubting and scorns derision 
And falters not at the cynic's mirth. 

So the dreamer dreams, but there follows after 

The mighty epic of steel and stone, 
When caisson, scaffold and wall and rafter 

Have made a fact where the dream was shown, 
And so with furnace and lathe and hammer, 

With blast that rumbles and shaft that gleams, 
Her factories crowned with a grimy glamor 

Newark buildeth the dreamer's dreams. 

Where the torrent leaps with a roar of thunder, 
Where the bridge is built or the dam is laid, 

Where the wet walled tunnel burrows under 
Mountain, river and palisade, 

There is Newark's magic of nail or girder, 
Of spikes and castings and posts and beams, 

1 105] 



A BANJO AT ARMAGEDDON 

NEWARK—THE BUILDER (continued) 
The needs and wants of the world have spurred her 
Newark — city that builds our dreams. 

She has fashioned tools for the world's rough duty, 

For the men that dig and the men that hew, 
She has fashioned jewels for wealth and beauty, 

She has shod the prince and the pauper, too. 
Yes, the dreamer dreams, he's the wonder waker, 

With soul that hungers and brain that teems, 
But back of him toils the magic maker, 

Newark — city that builds his dreams. 



[106] 



A BANJO AT ARMAGEDDON 



THE ENDLESS BATTLE 

THERE is no hope, and yet I keep on fighting. 
There is no chance, and yet I fight the more. 
Fate's holocaust is loosed against me, blighting 
My dream of triumph that I held of yore ; 
Sick am I, sick unto the very core 
Of heavy wrongs there is no way of righting, 

Yea, I am weary of the battle roar 
Beneath black skies no sun is ever lighting. 

I see no gleam of victory alluring, 
No chance of splendid booty or of gain, 

If I endure I must go on enduring 

And my reward for bearing pain — is pain; 

Yet, though the hope, the thrill, the zest are gone, 

Something within me keeps me fighting on! 



[ 107 1 



A BANJO AT ARMAGEDDON 



BUSINESS IS BUSINESS 



BUSINESS is Business," the Little Man said, 
"A battle where 'everything goes/ 
Where the only gospel is 'get ahead/ 

And never spare friends or foes, 
'Slay or be slain/ is the slogan cold, 

You must struggle and slash and tear, 
For Business is Business, a fight for gold, 
Where all that you do is fair! 5 



i» 



"Business is Business/' the Big Man said, 

"A battle to make of earth 
A place to yield us more wine and bread 

More pleasure and joy and mirth ; 
There are still some bandits and buccaneers 

Who are jungle-bred beasts of trade, 
But their number dwindles with passing years 

And dead is the code they made ! 

"Business is Business," the Big Man said, 

"But it's something that's more, far more ; 
For it makes sweet gardens of deserts dead, 

And cities it built now roar 
Where once the deer and the grey wolf ran 

From the pioneer's swift advance; 
Business is Magic that toils for man 

Business is True Romance. 

[108] 



A BANJO AT ARMAGEDDON 

BUSINESS IS BUSINESS (continued) 

"And those who make it a ruthless fight 

Have only themselves to blame 
If they feel no whit of the keen delight 

In playing the Bigger Game, 
The game that calls on the heart and head, 

The best of man's strength and nerve ; 
Business is Business," the Big Man said, 

"And that Business is to serve !" 



[109] 



A BANJO AT ARMAGEDDON 



THE SHOPS 

FACTORIES are crude and ugly places 
Even at best, and most of them are filled, 
With belts and shafts, machinery that races, 
And men with heavy hands and grimy faces, 

And noise, noise, noise! — noise that is ever spilled 
Upon the air like molten, white hot steel 

So fierce it is ; noise that is ground and shrilled, 
Pounded and shrieked and hummed, 
Clattered and drummed — 
Noise of the furnace and the hammer, squeal 
Of monster planers, crunch of giant shears, 
Rumble of rollers thudding on the ears 
With most intolerable clamor, yet these places 
Are where the dreams are built. 

— Through far flung spaces 
The long trains thunder ; over vasty seas 
The ships move on superbly ; towers rise 
Graceful and strong against the arching skies 
Of roaring cities, — miracles like these 

— All the huge wonders of this plangent time — 
Are born of ugly shops bedimmed with grime. 



[no] 



A BANJO AT ARMAGEDDON 



THE PRICE OF FISH 

THE tang of seas is in them, the power and the 
might, 
They bring a thrill of tempests and combers breaking 

white, 
Their faces spell Adventure and in their darting glance 
There burns the quenchless glory of those who live 

Romance, 
Yet, though they brave destruction and ever play with 

death 
And danger is their comrade whenever they draw 

breath, 
The wonder of their toiling is quite beyond their ken 
It's only daily labor for Deep Sea Fishermen! 



The tacking out of harbor past every rock and shoal, 
The lift and sag and shudder when heaving combers 

roll, 
The rush of deep sea breezes, the sting of deep sea 

spray 
Are only common items in a common working day, 
These tried and true adventurers are dreaming not at 

all, 
They speak of wind and weather and the chances of 

a haul, 
And when your hours for sleeping are less than one in 

ten 
You'll do as little dreaming as Deep Sea Fishermen! 

[in] 



A BANJO AT ARMAGEDDON 

THE PRICE OF FISH (continued) 

The fog may bring disaster — a liner, looming high — 

(Can twenty thousand tonners look out for smaller 

fry?) 
And when it's "Dories over" — and grey clouds turn 

to black 
You gamble with your Maker that you'll be coming 

back; 
It's work and sweat and peril from bait to dressing 

down, 
— And all to feed the Hungry who crowd the busy 

town, 
The fleet puts back to Gloucester — and widows wail 

again 
And so our fish is paid for — by Deep Sea Fishermen! 



[112J 



A BANJO AT ARMAGEDDON 



THE SCAB 

OF all the pore benighted dubs, 
The saddest is the Scab 
What works on bum non-union tubs, 

Say, honest, he's a crab. 
The way he works would make you laugh 

An' even if he'd try 
He couldn't never earn one-half 
What's paid the Union guy. 

He'll eat the grub a Chink wud spurn 

An' think he's lucky, too; 
He'll sleep on beds they ought to burn 

Which same they never do; 
He's kicked an' banged around the boat 

Until he's weak an' faint, 
The scab is sure an awful goat 

Although he thinks he ain't. 

I'm kinda sorry fer the scab 

He ain't so much to blame, 
Cheap jobs is all he has to grab 

An' so he grabs the same. 
He's hooted every place he goes, 

His life is very glum, 
Poor gink, I'm sorry fer his woes— 

The low down dirty bum! 

[113] 



A BANJO AT ARMAGEDDON 



VALE "BUFFALO BILL" 

GOOD-BYE, old Scout; you've done with 
crowded places 
Where once was open range for you to roam, 
But we can hope you ride in freer spaces, 

Scouting above us in the sky's blue dome ; 
For in your blood there stirred the restless leaven 

Which makes a rover fret within the fold, 
Yo could not rest, complacent, in a heaven 
With walls about, although they be of gold. 

From some great herd of untamed spirit horses, 

God, who is wise, will let you rope your own, 
And ride him, bucking, over trackless courses, 

Spurring on, joyous, through the vast unknown. 
Now and again, perchance, you will assemble 

A spirit band out of the long ago, 
And Heaven's hosts will thrill and chill and tremble 

At ghostly riders in your Wild West Show. 

But most, we know you will be tasting danger 

Where reckless nebulae are running free, 
You will be Heaven's dauntless, happy Ranger 

Hunting mad asteroids that flare and flee. 
You could not be content to hymn and psalm it 

Plucking at harpstrings in a golden jail, 
But we shall see you — as a blithe new comet — 

Tracking wild stars upon the astral trail! 

[114] 



A BANJO AT ARMAGEDDON 



THE WELL SHOOTER 

(In the Pennsylvania and New York oil fields there 
are comparatively few oil wells that "flow" of them- 
selves. They have to be pumped. To facilitate pump- 
ing and to quicken the underground flow of oil, nitro- 
glycerine is lowered to the bottom of the well and set 
off by the concussion of a "go-devil" or chaser dropped 
on top of it. The man in charge of this difficult and 
dangerous work is called a well shooter.) 

WHEN the derrick is built and the well is 
drilled 
To the oil sands down below, 
They send around for the guy who's skilled 

In helpin' that oil to flow; 
For it may be big and it may be not, 

But you can't 'most always tell, 
Till after that nitro charge is shot 
By the feller who shoots the well. 

He's a nitroglycerin Johnny, 

With a kind of a breezy way; 
The smile of the scamp is bonny 

An' the talk of the lad is gay. 
To care he seems a stranger, 

An' you never on earth could tell 
That he works in deadly danger 

This feller who shoots the well. 

[115 3 



A BANJO AT ARMAGEDDON 

THE WELL SHOOTEE (continued) 
His auto it rattles acrost the hills, 

An' it makes you hold your breath, 
An* it gives you a lovely set of chills 

When you think of his load of death, 
With that nitroglycerin sloppin' about 

An* him a-singin' free, 
Though he knows if a can of the stuff fell out 

He'd muss up the scenery ! 

He's a nitroglycerin kiddo 

An' he's got to keep his wits, 
Or he'll leave his wife a widow 

To a lot of scattered bits. 
He needs a head that's level 

An' a nerve that you can't dispel, 
An' he mustn't fear man or devil, 

This feller who shoots the well. 

He lowers them long torpedoes through 

The hole that the drills has made, 
An' you notice he does it careful, too, 

For his is a risky trade. 
Then he lets that iron devil drop 

An' he runs like Billy Hell, 
An' a geyser climbs to the derrick top 

— An' you know that he's shot the well. 

An* whether the well is splendid 

Or a kind of a pindlin' one, 
His part of the work is ended, 

His share of the job is done. 
[116] 



A BANJO AT ARMAGEDDON 

THE WELL SHOOTER (continued) 
With his lips a-whistlin' happy 

An' his hat cocked on his knob, 
This nitroglycerin chappy 

Moves on to another job! 



[117] 



A BANJO AT ARMAGEDDON 



THE ELECTRICIAN 

WHERE the sparks of the white-hot welder play, 
Where the searchlights stab at the fogbank 
grey, 
Where the bright lights glare on the Great White 
Way, 
The Slave of the Lamp is lurking, 
The Slave of the Lamp, yet the Master too, 
The wizard of light in a world made new 
Where the fairy tales of the past come true 
And the dreams of the past are working ! 

The power house is his charge to keep, 

Where the dynamos whir and the blue sparks leap, 

And death is waiting — if caution sleep — 

In the midst of the day's endeavour, 
For if ever that harnessed might breaks loose 
From the chains that hold it bound for use, 
The Slave of the Lamp — and Boss of the Juice — 

Is done with the Job, forever ! 

He tinkers away at the trolley wire 
Or jauntily dares the third rail's ire, 
That things may run to his heart's desire 

And the work of the world hold steady. 
Would you hire a man who is schooled to jolts, 
Who can play ping pong with the thunderbolts 
And juggle away with a million volts? 

The Slave of the Lamp is ready ! 

[n8] 



A BANJO AT ARMAGEDDON 



THE HEART OF THE MINE 

SOMETIMES my heartbeats, calm and slow, 
Seem like the sound of long ago ; 
The rhythmic pulsing of my blood 
Is like the steady throb and thud 
The air compressors used to play 
All night and day, all night and day, 
Where, at the shaft, there formed the line 
Of miners going down the mine ! 



The pumps below would thump and sob, 
But up on top was just the throb 
Of huge compressors never still 
Storing the air that runs each drill, 
And singing endlessly this song, 
"Be strong, be strong, be strong, be strong ! 
And strong we were, who formed the line 
Of miners going down the mine! 



99 



So now, afar from slope and drift, 
From running drill or changing shift, 
My very heartthrobs serve to call 
My thoughts back surely to it all; 
I seem to hear as music sweet 
The air compressors' steady beat, 
To be a portion of the line 
Of miners going down the mine! 

[119] 



A BANJO AT ARMAGEDDON 

THE HEART OF THE MINE (continued) 
Comes swiftly to me as of yore 
The "hough!" of engines hoisting ore, 
The hoot of whistles, and the shock 
Of air drills gouging at the rock ; 
And, somehow, down within me deep 
Awakes the ghost I thought asleep, 
The lure of days I joined the line 
Of miners going down the mine! 



[120] 



A BANJO AT ARMAGEDDON 



THE REPORTER 

HERE'S your True Adventurer, here's your errant 
Knight, 
Here's your loyal soldier, unafraid, 
Tackling any worriment, chancing any fight ; 

Trouble's but the business of his trade; 
Cool and unabashable, humorous of eye, 

Cynical and flippant in his views, 
Watching all life's comedy as it passes by, 
Giving you its stories — in the news ! 

Here's your True Adventurer, ever on the job. 

When there's something doing, he is there ! 
Battle, murder, sudden death — fire or angry mob, 

These are varied perils he must dare; 
Send him to the tropic swamps, send him to the pole, 

Send him forth on any quest you choose ; 
He will serve you faithfully, heart and brain and soul, 

Braving any dangers for the news! 

Here's your True Adventurer, servant of the Press — 

Just a plain reporter on the street, 
Chronicler of human life, failure and success, 

Cryer of romances, sad or sweet! 
Playing for the gallery, never to the gallery, 

Nothing ever moves him to dismay, 
So he serves the world of men for a paltry salary; 

Here's your True Adventurer, To-day! 

[121] 



A BANJO AT ARMAGEDDON 



NOMAD 

WHEN Adam beat a swift retreat, 
From Eden's sunny strand, 
And with his wife began his life 

Within a foreign land, 
If you should trace his settling place 

To dreary climes or fair, 
I'll bet a drink you'd find a Chink — 
John Chinaman was there ! 

You sing of men whose ships have been 

Across uncharted seas; 
But who has sung the clan far flung, — 

The patient, calm Chinese? 
Both near and far, he keeps bazaar, 

Wherever men may fare, 
They'll find his store has gone before, 

John Chinaman is there ! 

Wide is the spell of Israel 

Whose sons fare forth for gold; 
But you find John still further on, 

The trader, ages old. 
No mountains grim can frighten him, 

No rolling seas can scare; 
From sweating Line to snow and pine, 

John Chinaman is there! 

[122] 



A BANJO AT ARMAGEDDON 



THE FARMER 

WHEN all the songs of labor have been sung 
(Full of the clang of steel, the throb of steam, 
The clatter of the hammers where is flung 

The fine spun bridge across the roaring stream) 
When all the chants of labor have been said 

(Deep throated chants from mighty bosoms hurled) 
Mine is the chant of chants, the Song of Bread 
I am the Master — f or I feed the World ! 

The toilers of the factories and mines 

The workers of the rivers and the seas, 
The heavy-muscled hewers of the pines, 

The idlers 'mid their unearned luxuries, 
At last must look to Me, aye, one and all 

Without me armies fail and flags are furled, 
Without me kingdoms die and Empires fall, 

I am the Master, for I feed the World ! 

Beneath the blazing sun I do my toil 

With straining back and overburdened thews, 
Sowing the seed and reaping from the soil 

The corn and wheat and rice that men must use, 
Patient and strong I bend me to my work, 

Life eddies round me like a dust-cloud whirled, 
For this I know, despite the sweat and irk, 

I am the Master, for I feed the World ! 

[123] 



A BANJO AT ARMAGEDDON 



THE JOY OF LIFE 

I'D rather risk gamely 
And lose for my trying 
Than grind around tamely 

— A cog in the mill. 
I'd rather fail greatly 

With courage undying 
Then plod on sedately 
With never a thrill ! 

The game's in the playing 

And, losing or winning, 
The fun's in essaying 

Your bravest and best, 
In taking your chances 

While Fate's wheel is spinning, 
And backing your fancies 

With nerve and with zest! 

Let stodgy folk censure 

And timid folk quaver, 
But life sans adventure 

Is weary to bear, 
The dangers we're sharing 

Give living its savour, 
I'd rather die daring 

Than never to dare! 

[124] 

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